


Room of Requirement

by teacuphuman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221b, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Harry Potter References, I made shit up, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a new work for the <a href="http://exchangelock.tumblr.com/">exchangelock</a> AU challenge and was written for Deducingcumberbatch. Due to time constraints and technological mutiny this is still a WIP but will hopefully be finished in the next week!</p><p>John meets Sherlock while hiding in the Room of Requirements. He just can't help being pulled into the mad genius' dangerous adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deducingcumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Deducingcumberbatch).



 

John sat in front of the fire, legs stretched out and bare feet crossed at the ankle. He sipped his tea and let the warmth of the room chase away the anger that had brought him to the Room of Requirement less than an hour earlier. He'd first discovered the room the day the owl had arrived with the news that his father was dead. The cancer had returned and his parents had decided to keep it from he and his sister while they were away at school. He had run from the great hall and his sister's anguished shrieking. His first impulse had been to slap her. He wasn't proud of it, but he also couldn't deny how strong that first reaction had been. Which is why he'd run.

 

John had of course heard of the infamous Room of Requirement but never did he entertain the thought he'd be special enough to discover it. He found himself in a strange part of the castle, panting but refusing to cry, and longing for something to change his life. He knew he couldn't pretend his father was ever coming back but maybe, John thought, he could find something that might eventually take away the pain. At that thought a black door with a brass knocker appeared in front of him he shoved through it, desperate for something soothing to be on the other side. What he found, at the top of a set of stairs, was a homey flat with tall windows and an empty chair in front of a crackling fireplace. The makeshift flat had a small kitchen with a kettle and John's favourite tea. He'd slept there, in front of the fire, that first night and found himself returning to the cozy space whenever he felt overwhelmed.

 

His father died on a Tuesday.  He and his sister, Harriet, returned to school the following Monday and John went directly to the Room. The whole time he'd been home felt like drowning. His mother was an empty shell and his sister looked at him as though he should somehow know what to do to make things better. John hated them both. He wanted to shake his mother. Scream at her that she was all they had now and it was her job to take over. Instead he planned the funeral, made all the decisions, and hid his anger behind his duty.

 

When he returned to school he felt disgust at the pitying faces that turned to him to offer condolences. Harriet basked in the attention, sniffling from class to class, bemoaning their loss. It made John sick. It made him want to hit something. But the moment he stepped through the black door he felt his anger and sadness slowly drain away. He felt like he could breathe again.

 

After the first few visits John began to notice small changes in his refuge. A couch appeared on the third visit. A bedroom and another chair before the fire on the fourth. On the fifth visit, after nearly avoiding being sent to the Headmaster for mouthing off in Charms, he arrived to find a desk and chair settled in between the windows and a second teacup on the cupboard. The room clearly thought he'd be inviting someone else into it. Not bloody likely, John thought.

 

Slowly, items starting appearing on the shelves and walls that hadn't been there before. Magical medical books, a framed print of a skull, a Persian slipper. Two days ago a human skull had be sitting on the mantle above the fireplace. While it fascinated John, he watched it warily out of one eye, fighting goose bumps until he turned it toward the wall so it couldn't watch him. When John stumbled through the door today, seething with pent up aggression after listening to his friend's holiday plans with their families over the Christmas break, he found a second chair pulled up to the fire, across from his. He stopped and stared at it dumbly, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. How dare the Room do this? This was his space and no one else was invited to share it. He had the sudden urge to toss the chair out of front door and into the hallway of the castle. He stepped forward to do just that when his shoe caught on the carpet and he fell forward.

 

The jolt was what he needed to be reminded that this wasn't actually his space. The Room made the rules and he should be grateful it was allowing him to use it as much as it did. Instead John made tea, sat in his chair, and waited. Clearly something was coming and he wasn't willing to give up his safe space to avoid it. He was taking the last sip of his tea when the door at the bottom of the stairs banged open. It crashed shut again and he heard someone stumbling up the stairs. The steps were heavy and hurried and John turned in his chair just in time to see a messy jumble of dark curls hurtle through the upper door, slamming it behind them.

 

The newcomer was breathing erratically, leaning against the closed door. His chin was pressed to his chest and his long fingers came up to tangle in his hair. He clearly hadn't noticed the other boy when he came in and not wanting to startle him; John sat silently, staring into his now empty cup. After a minute the stranger raised his head, pushing off the door and jumping at the discovery of another person in the room. John looked up at the choking noise from the door and smiled tightly.

                       

"Tea?" he asked.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The new boy blinked slowly at him for a whole twenty-two seconds. John counted. Then he cleared his throat and nodded sharply.

"Yes."

John got up slowly, not wanting to spook him, and made his way into the kitchen. He set about making the tea while the other boy wandered around the sitting room, examining. When the tea was done John handed it to the boy and sat back in his chair. The boy took a small sip, wincing at the heat.

"This all yours then?" He gestured around him with the cup.

"No." John answered with a small smile.

"Hmm."

The boy's eyes wandered over the books on the shelves, smirking to himself when he encountered the one on deadly muggle poisons. John tried not to stare but he figured some study was allowed since he'd been here first. Eventually the boy sat down in the chair opposite and watched John through the steam rising from the top of his cup.

His eyes were piercing and John did his best not to squirm under their scrutiny. There was a bruise blossoming over the boy's left cheekbone, marring his pale skin. John got up with a grunt and fetched an icepack from the freezer. He tossed it to the boy and settled back in his chair. The boy looked amused.

"Muggle parents," he stated.

"What?"

"Your first instinct was an ice pack, not a charm, to help with the bruising. Someone from a wizarding family would barely know what an icepack is."

"How do you know what it is then?" John asked.

The boy raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Why do you assume I come from a wizarding family?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes."

The boy looked disgruntled at John's knowledge of him but covered it nicely with another cautious sip of tea.

"My reputation precedes me, it seems."

"You could say that. I was walking by Defense Against the Dark Arts when you and Professor Quartz were yelling at   
each other." John told him.

"I was not yelling. The man is an idiot and apparently doesn't take well to being corrected." Sherlock huffed.

"Most idiots don't in my experience. What's that saying? 'Small minds often have big mouths'."

"Yes, exactly!" He exclaimed, leaning forward. "He was trying to claim the Praetorious spell was the best defense against an unseen attacker when clearly an Exsto spell would be more useful."

"So what idiot did that to your face?" John asked.

Sherlock sat back, shifting in his seat.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

"Why?"

"Because that's not usually how we solve our differences at Hogwarts. You must have really pissed someone off to   
have them reacting with their fists instead of their wand."

Sherlock smirked at him.

"You're not as dull as you look," he trailed off, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

"John. Watson."

"John Watson. Not dull at all."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment." John mused.

"You should. So, why are you here?" Sherlock asked.

"From what I hear, you should be able to tell me."

"I could but given the delicate nature of your reason I thought it polite to let you explain."

"Polite? Not sure that's a word I've ever heard used when describing you."

"I hope you won't let others perceptions colour your opinion of me, John."

"No, I shouldn't. Considering I'm enjoying your company much more than I ever thought I would." John admitted.

"High praise, indeed. Now, will you explain or should I?"

"You go on, I've heard all sorts of wild stories about what you can do; I'd love to see you in action." John could have   
sworn he saw a blush creep up Sherlock's neck but before he could be sure the other boy launched into John's life story.

"Oldest of two, born into a muggle family, though I'd suspect there's a witch or wizard somewhere in your family tree. Hard worker, Captain and Keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You take pride in your accomplishments but you're not one to flaunt them, which you should every now and then, it would be good for you. Rather studious but uneventful time here at Hogwarts over the past six years. This year though, you've had a few too many noteworthy experiences even though the term has barely begun."

Sherlock paused as though asking permission to continue. John nodded slightly and turned his head to stare into the fire. He could feel Sherlock's pale gaze travel over him and he had to repress a shiver.

"Your father died. Not long ago, maybe two weeks. You were close to him and you're not dealing with the loss well. You're angry and having trouble dealing with the reactions of those around you. That's why you're hiding in the Room of Requirement; it's easier than explaining to your friends that you're not the person you were before."

Sherlock stopped talking but continued to stare. John sniffed and turned back to face him.

"That's amazing." He said honestly.

Sherlock barked out a surprised laugh. 

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?" John asked and Sherlock pointed to his purpling face.

"I see. So are you going to tell me who did that?"

"I told you it doesn't matter. I probably deserved it." Sherlock flapped his hand, dismissing the matter.

"It matters because friends don't let friends get punched without retaliation."

Sherlock eyed him critically, his face going slightly pink.

"While I appreciate the sentiment, John, it would be selfish of me to allow you to vent your misplaced anger on my behalf."

"Misplaced?" John asked.

"You're coiled tight as a spring, just itching for a fight. I am not your fight John Watson."

"You could be," John said quietly. "I meant what I said about being friends. I've spoken more to you tonight than I have lately to the friends I've had the past six years. I think I've missed it."

"I-I don't. That is I- I'm not sure." Sherlock cleared his throat and shook himself. "I don't have friends."

"Then I'd say you're due for one." John told him.

That icy stare was back, flitting over every inch of John, assessing. After a minute Sherlock smiled slowly.

"Meet me here tonight. Midnight. We'll see how far this friendship lark goes."

With that Sherlock stood and strode out of the room, skipping down the stairs and slamming the front door behind him. Upstairs John took the first deep breath he'd taken in what felt like a very long time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John was waiting just inside the black door when Sherlock showed up. He'd arrived early and spent the time pacing the front hall wondering just what Sherlock had planned. Anticipation thrummed in his veins and he had to keep wiping his sweating palms on his pants.

He had to admit to himself that he knew very little about the other boy. John had heard Sherlock was a recent transplant from Beauxbatons but he wasn't sure of the reason for the switch. Wild rumours circulated about the temperamental young man with the sharp cheekbones and the dazzling eyes. Some people said he'd been caught having an affair with a professor. Other reports had him staging a revolution protesting the restrictions on spell usage within the grounds. One story John had heard was Sherlock having been moved to Hogwarts for his own protection after uncovering a conspiracy involving high ranking members of the Ministry of Magic. Whatever the reason, John couldn't deny he was pleased to have Sherlock nearby.

Sherlock came through the black door with an air of mischief about him.

"Good, you're ready." He smiled.

"Did you think I wouldn't be?" John asked.

"I try not to overestimate others, John; it saves me from bashing my head against the wall."

"You're ridiculous." John told him.

Sherlock tutted and frown at him.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, young man." He winked and disappeared back through the door.

John lurched after him, not catching up until they were half way down the hall. Once he drew up beside Sherlock, the boy turned and muttered, flicking his wand at their feet and immediately silencing their steps.

"Where are we going?" John whispered, clutching at Sherlock's sleeve to keep him close. Sherlock spared a startled look at John's hand on him before answering.

"The dungeons." He answered.

John almost stumbled at the answer but managed to keep upright as they turned the corner and came upon the main staircase.

"We can't go that way, it's enchanted." John hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and lifted his wand. Again he spoke too lowly for John to hear and then simply stood and waited. John itched to ask what they were waiting for but he got the feeling Sherlock wouldn't answer him.

It wasn't long before a soft whistling sound came at them from the darkness at the bottom of the staircase. John stood in shock as a flying carpet appeared in front of him. Sherlock twirled his fingers around one of the golden tassels and the carpet vibrated with a soft purr. The boy deftly jumped up to settle on the plush red carpet, not seeming to notice when it dipped frighteningly before adjusting to his weight.

John could feel how big his eyes were but he couldn't do anything to change his shocked face. A long, pale hand appeared in front of his face.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock asked.

"That's a flying carpet." John stated.

"Yes and we don't have a lot of time before someone stumbles upon us with it so, are you coming?"

"Yeah, but no. That's an actual flying carpet. Not just an enchanted piece of furniture. It has cognizance. It purred when you touched it, Sherlock."

"John, I'd be happy to introduce you to all the reactions my touch may invoke at a later time but right now we have to go. Are you coming?"

John blinked stupidly at him, unable to move past Sherlock's statement regarding his touch.

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock drawled in a low voice and the next thing John knew he was seated behind the boy on the carpet, clutching at Sherlock's waist as their ride cut a wide arc and barrelled down the staircase toward the dungeons.

The hallways in the lower portion of the castle were narrow and moist. The carpet curled it's edges toward them protectively as if to shelter the riders from the damp. When they reached the door to the Potions classroom the carpet stopped abruptly and Sherlock hopped off. John was privately pleased he landed on his feet and not his face when he dismounted. Looking up, he saw his relief mirrored on Sherlock's face.

The door was locked but instead of pulling out his wand, Sherlock dropped to his knees and spread out what looked suspiciously like a muggle lock pick kit. John snorted softly at its appearance and earned himself a rueful smile from the boy at his feet. The door clicked quietly open and Sherlock stuffed his kit back into his robes as he got to his feet.

John looked around them before following him into the pitch black of the classroom. He bumped into Sherlock, who reached around him to swing the door silently closed, leaving them in total darkness. John could feel the other boy's breath on his face and feel the heat from his body, so close to his own. After a heated moment of silence John reached out tentatively toward Sherlock just as light erupted from the tip of the other boy's wand. He quickly pulled his hand back, ignoring the strange look Sherlock gave him. John cleared his throat and squinted at the empty desks around them.

"What are we doing here?"

"Inventory." Sherlock muttered as he strode to the trapdoor leading to the student's storeroom.

"You're not serious." John said peering into the hole Sherlock had just disappeared into.

"Someone has been pilfering rare ingredients to use in even rarer spells in their efforts to obtain several important and expensive historical artifacts. If I can ascertain which ingredients have recently disappeared I will be able to parse which spells are being used, thus leading me to which artifacts are at risk."

"You don't suffer from a lack of confidence, do you?" John said, shaking his head and stepping carefully down into the small space.

"Not really, no. But everyone has their weak spots." Sherlock told him.

"What's yours then?" John asked mildly.

Sherlock grinned at him briefly before his wand went out.

"Perhaps another time." Sherlock whispered in his ear, making John swallow thickly as the other boy brushed past him and bounded back up the steps. John resealed the trapdoor as Sherlock reached the back of the classroom, glancing around before stepping into the hallway. He whistled sharply and the carpet sprang around the corner like an excited puppy.

"Come, John," he said as he leapt onto the carpet, extending his hand to the shorter boy. "The game is on."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Their next stop was the Potion Master's private Cupboard on the first floor of the castle. They floated silently down the Tapestry Corridor until they came to one depicting Barnabas the Barmy's attempt at teaching trolls to dance.

Sherlock climbed off the carpet, robes sweeping behind him and pulled back the thick hanging to reveal a dark, wooden door. He once again went to his knees and pulled out his kit. John cleared his throat and reached over the other boy's shoulder to unlatch and open the door. Sherlock stared up at him in wonder.

"I'm guessing all of three people know this door is here. It's Squall's private storeroom, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"He's muggle-born too, and quirky at that. Seems like him to enchant the door to send out an alarm if magic or anything but directly opening it is used."

"Good deduction, John." Sherlock told him as he climbed to his feet. "Still not boring," he said as he stepped into the room.

"So are we doing inventory here as well then?" John asked and Sherlock hummed his assent, lighting his wand.

They weren't in the room long before they heard voices. Sherlock put out the light and grabbed onto John's sleeve, pulling him closer.

"They may pass by," he whispered, hot breath ghosting over John's cheek. "The carpet knows to hide itself."

John nodded, goose bumps rising on his arms and neck. The voices drew nearer, one deeper and curt, the other soft and lilting as it trilled. Whoever they were, they didn't seem worried about being caught out in the middle of the night. Most likely professors then, John thought, though he couldn't place them.

The voices stopped directly outside the storeroom door, arguing now. The softer voiced man seemed to be trying to sooth the other one. Their words were muffled by the thick tapestry and even thicker door but Sherlock leaned forward over John's shoulder straining to hear anyway.

The latch clicked and the door opened an inch, letting light stream in. John turned to Sherlock, panicked but Sherlock clapped his hand over John's mouth, cutting off his words.

"We don't need it," A low voice insisted. "This is too risky; we're going to get caught."

"No, were not," the other voice reassured. Now that the voices were clearer, their owners sounded much younger than  
John had first supposed.

"Just because no one has caught on yet, doesn't mean they won't. What about that Holmes kid? He was awfully close to the target when we found him yesterday."

"Did it escape your notice that he was being beaten handily by that weasel Anderson while he was there? He was being obnoxious again, not sniffing us out. Trust me, pet."

There was a ruffle of clothing and then a sigh.

"Alright, I still say we don't need it though. It's too soon since we took the bramblewort. Squall is going to notice."

"But I want-" the soft voice protested.

"I know, and I'll get it for you, I promise. But not tonight. Not so soon after we were last here."

"Oh, alright," the voice pouted and the door closed.

John let out a noisy breath against Sherlock's hand and the boy grinned at him. He relit his wand and removed the hand, pressing his finger against his own lips to ensure John's continued silence. John stared at the long digit pressed into the plump of Sherlock's bottom lip and fought against clearing this throat. Sherlock caught his gaze and quirked an eyebrow.

Do you think they're gone? John mouthed, thankful of the dim lighting to hide his blush.

"We'll wait another minute to be sure," Sherlock whispered. He turned around and continued his perusal of the Potion Master's shelves.

John stood in silence, trying to rid himself of the heat brought on by Sherlock's mouth. It was a very pretty mouth, he allowed, but thinking about it too much was going to get him in trouble. He'd just discovered this exciting, new boy and he didn't want any awkwardness on his part robbing him of Sherlock's friendship.

"Bramblewort," Sherlock muttered.

"Pardon?"

"They said they took bramblewort. What on earth would they need that for? It's only used in two, no three spells, and those aren't very impressive."

"You said they were using the spells to get to hidden artifacts, right? Professor Quartz told us second year that dark wizards sometimes used really basic spells to protect their treasures because most witches and wizards would try the tough ones first and fail, causing the item to curse them for getting it wrong."

Sherlock was looking at John as if he had grown a second head. Surprised, but pleased.

"What?" John asked.

"That's actually quite brilliant." Sherlock told him.

"Oh, well, I have my moments. I'm not an idiot, you know."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. But you do seem to have your uses, John Watson. I believe I'll keep you."

"Oh, ta." John scoffed.

"Come on, they'll have cleared out by now." Sherlock brushed past him again, passing his arm along John's chest.

He opened the door and pushed the tapestry aside to let John exit before him. They stood blinking into the brighter light for a moment before Sherlock pursed his lips to whistle for the flying carpet. Before he could make a sound, a cry rang out from the end of the hall. The owners of the mystery voices weren't as far away as they'd assumed and had spotted them.

"Run!" Sherlock grunted, pushing John ahead of him. They went back the way they'd come on the carpet, through the Viaduct and into the Entrance hall. The carpet met them at the base of the Grand Staircase. John launched himself onto it, having the breath knocked from him when Sherlock did the same and landed on top of him. The carpet raced upwards as they heard the heavy steps of their pursuers following close behind.

"Hurry," Sherlock urged the carpet, legs still tangled with John's. "If they see the carpet we lose our advantage!"

They cleared the top of the stairs and had just turned the corner, out of sight, when the carpet stopped abruptly and dumped them in a heap on the ground. It rose above them and zoomed in the down the corridor to their left.

"What the hell?" John swore, pushing himself up. He looked down at Sherlock underneath him. "Are you okay?"

"Off, we need to keep going!" Sherlock squirmed, causing a certain part of John's anatomy to take notice. John shoved himself away, adjusting his clothing as inconspicuously as he could.

Sherlock grabbed his arm and took off toward the House Hallway. They were both panting and sweating with no sign of their pursuers by the time they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady that served as the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. They leaned against the wall, huffing for breath. John tried to keep it inside but a giggle burst out of his mouth before he could stifle it. Sherlock's head whipped around comically, making John laugh harder. It only took a moment for the other boy to join in, his deep chuckle felt by John where they were pressed shoulder to shoulder.

"That," John gasped. "Was ridiculous!"

"The carpet has sentient thought," he waved his hand, dismissing it.

"And a better sense of self-preservation than we do." John noted, setting them off again.

John opened his mouth to thank Sherlock for taking him along on his adventure when the other boy grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. Sherlock's lips were even softer than they looked, and blindingly hot against his. John was startled for a moment but quickly responded to the attack, sliding his tongue out and across the seam of Sherlock's lips, seeking entrance. Sherlock hummed in this throat and parted his lips, allowing John to plunge ahead.

Before he'd satisfied his curiosity they heard footsteps approaching and Sherlock pulled away sharply, gasping.

"Prefect patrol," he whispered, eyes flitting quickly over John's face. He licked his lips, and smiled. "Not boring at all. Room of Requirement, tomorrow night after curfew."

And with that he was gone, slipping into the darkness in the direction of the west tower and his own dormitory.

John touched his still tingling lips and slurred out the password to the entrance.

"Sure you don't need a minute?" The Fat Lady teased.

John glared at her and straightened his clothing. The portrait swung open with a laugh and John all but floated up to his bed and the sweet dreams that awaited him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

John was made his way impatiently through his lessons the next day, not really paying attention to anything but hoping to chance a glimpse of dark tousled curls in the halls. He never did spot Sherlock and was buzzing with anticipation by the time he made his way to the Room of Requirement that night.

When the door appeared he noticed it had changed. It now had a knocker and the number 221 at its center. He had no idea what it meant and didn't pay it much thought as he entered.

He was barely halfway up the stairs when Sherlock stormed out the sitting room door.

"There you are! I've been waiting ages!"

"It's ten minutes past curfew, Sherlock."

"Time is of the utmost importance tonight! Let's go!" He quickly descended the stairs, passing John and heading for the front door.

"Oh, we're not going to..." John trailed off, feeling embarrassed for presuming they'd spend the night snogging.

"The Work comes first, John!" He called over his shoulder.

John sighed and hurried to catch up. Sherlock led him through so many dark corridors John was unsure what floor they were even on when they came upon a lesser staircase in the North wing. Sherlock looked over his shoulder with a wild look in his eye.

"Be ready," he told John and started down the stairs.

"Ready for what?" John asked just as the staircase started to move.

"Quickly John!" Sherlock called, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him onto the stairs.

Just as John regained his balance and registered Sherlock's warm hand tightly holding his, the other boy was climbing onto the railing.

"What are you doing?" John asked, trying to pull him back down.

"Get up here!" Sherlock insisted, pulling in the opposite direction.

John peered over the railing at the hard stones, far below them. Yep, he thought, still on the seventh floor. He looked up at his new friend and the look of certainty on his face.

"Could be dangerous," Sherlock grinned.

John felt a responding smile break out over his face and climbed up to stand beside him. As the staircase reached the halfway point the floor beneath them wavered like a heatwave.

"Jump!" Sherlock shouted and pitched himself off the railing, pulling John along with him.

John would later admit to himself that he'd tried to scream. Had desperately wanted to, actually, but the force of the air against him as he fell prevented any sound from escaping. As they plummeted toward the floor Sherlock's grip in his hand tightened until it ground his bones together. Despite that, John was grateful for the contact. Half a second before they reached the floor the kiss they'd shared the previous evening flashed in John's mind. At least he'd die with a pleasant thought in his head, he thought ruefully.

They passed through the floor with a whoosh and plunged into cold, dark waters. Sherlock, who had jumped feet first landed smoothly and had time to take a breath before he went under. John, who had been pulled sideways by this friend and therefore went into the water face-first, did not.

What little air was left in his lungs was violently punched out when the water hit him like a brick wall. He felt his nose break upon impact, the pain made him gasp and causing him to draw the bitter, freezing water into his lungs. Instantly he began to panic. And sink. He tried to reign in his fear and struggled to determine which way was up. The water was pitch black though, and his lungs had begun to burn. He flailed his arms and legs, desperate to connect with anything that might give him direction but found nothing. He felt himself begin to sink further and was a moment from his body giving in to its frantic search for air by gulping in more water when Sherlock's hands fisted in his shirt and hauled him upward.

Again John was reminded of the kiss and he giggled, chest burning when water flooded into his throat. The next thing he registered was coughing up the brackish water, gagging as his body tried to expel the water and suck in oxygen at the same time.

He was vaguely aware of Sherlock calling his name and rubbing his back. As soon as his body stopped heaving and he had taken a half a dozen shaky breaths without choking he grabbed either side of Sherlock's head and smashed their mouths together. Their noses bumped and a fresh starburst of pain exploded through him, causing him to bite down hard on the other boy's lip. Sherlock groaned into John's mouth and pulled him closer, fingers digging into John's biceps. John pulled away, panting hard.

"From now on, we start with that. Got it?" He rasped.

Sherlock nodded vigorously and reached for him again. He pressed hard kisses over John's face, avoiding his nose, which had begun to bleed freely. John absently pet Sherlock's head and waited for his heart to stop it's frantic tattoo.

"Why didn't you warn me?" John asked once Sherlock had ceased kissing him and had buried his face in John's neck.

"I didn't know what was beyond the floor; I only knew it led somewhere." Sherlock whispered.

"Idiot," John huffed. "Who jumps seven floors and doesn't know what the landing is going to be?"

"Nine." Sherlock said and squirmed closer.

"What?" John asked, pulling away.

"I was nine floors before we hit the water." Sherlock said sheepishly.

"Merlin's beard, Sherlock! No wonder my nose broke. We're lucky we didn't break our necks!"

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Sherlock said, pulling out his wand. He uttered a few words, pointing it at John's face.

John felt a painful shifting and heard a sickening, wet pop before cold relief flooded through his face.

"Better?" Sherlock asked.

"Loads, thanks. A little warning next time would go a long way to me not throttling you, by the way."

Sherlock tilted his head and regarded John seriously, the effect of which was mostly ruined by repeatedly having to blink water out of his eyes.

"Noted." He said.

"Here, let's get dry." John smiled at him, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.

"I can manage," Sherlock insisted and pointed his wand at his shirt, using a warming charm to dry it.

"That'll take ages. Didn't you say time was of the utmost importance?" Sherlock nodded. "Then let me."

He pulled out his wand, thankfully still in one piece and not lost to the water. He whispered the words and felt the magic rush through him as a wave of heat passed over the other boy, drying him completely and turning his hair into a fluffy nest on his head.

"It's a different look, but I think I like it." John laughed, staring at Sherlock's hair.

"What was that?" He asked, trying to flatten his mane.

"Advanced heating charm," John explained.

"Hmm, useful." Sherlock admitted, getting to his feet.

John smirked and repeated the charm on himself, shivering as the intense heat chased away the wet and cold.

"Now, where are we and what are we doing here?" He asked, taking Sherlock's offered hand and allowing himself to be pulled to standing. He smiled to himself when the other boy didn't let go.

"I discovered what the next item on the thieves list is." He answered, looking around.

"And?" John followed his gaze, realizing they were in a great cavern of emerald coloured rock.

"We're going to get it first." Sherlock said and started walking.

"I'm sorry?" John sputtered.

"Do try and listen, John, I despise repeating myself."

"Yeah, sorry, it always takes me twice as long to understand insanity. Sherlock, if whatever is down here is next on their list, doesn't that mean they'll be coming after it? Soon?"

"Very good, John. I did tell you time is of-"

"Yes, yes, I know. But Sherlock, they already almost caught us once. What if this time they succeed?"

"They're students, John. They have to be to have gone unnoticed for this long. Even after the Potter era, those in power are still underestimating what students are capable of. It's ridiculous."

"Okay, but if they didn't we wouldn't be able to sneak around either, would we?"

Sherlock paused and looked over at him.

"Good point." He conceded. They'd reached the back of the cavern and were standing in front of the shiny, rock face. It continued in a tall arc, at the top of which was a diamond whose light reflected on the cloudy lake below.

Sherlock released John's hand and started feeling along the wall. John reached out and ran his fingers over the rock. It was like glass, smooth and cool to the touch with random, jagged outcroppings. Sherlock had moved further down the wall, examining from the floor upwards as far as he could reach. It took some time but finally he crowed in triumph.

"Genius!" He cried, sliding his fingers into an almost invisible crevasse a few inches above his head. He shoved his hand forward and there was clicking before a small shelf presented itself in front of him.

"This is what they needed the bramblewort for. I took what was left when they mentioned it. It's for a simple garden potion, meant to help vines grow. It shouldn't take more than a quarter hour to ready it."

"And then?" John asked.

Sherlock's mouth lifted to one side.

"And then we climb."

As it turned out, Sherlock had a small pouch in his pant pocket. A pouch from which he surprisingly extracted a small cauldron, the bramblewort, and the other ingredients needed for the potion. He placed the cauldron on the shelf and got to work lighting it, then added the ingredients, muttering the steps of the potion to himself the whole while.

John crossed his arms over his chest and watched from his position against the wall a few feet away. He followed Sherlock's elegant hands as they fluttered over the now steaming concoction, his face a mask of utter concentration as he worked. John didn't know what's he'd done to deserve this young man as a friend (or perhaps more if John had his way), but he thanked the powers that be that he'd done it. Sherlock was danger and wonder and mystery all rolled into a sharp but undeniably sexy package. It made John's head spin to think of where they could take their attraction.

He let his gaze travel over the other boy's long and muscular frame. He didn't look that strong but he'd managed to pull a struggling and soaked John out of the water on his own and John probably outweighed him by at least a stone. Experience told John that Sherlock's height and reach would be a distinct advantage against an opponent less experienced than himself.

"You're distracting me." Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John, then back to the simmering cauldron.

"Am I?" John smiled.

"Yes, is there something you want?"

"Oh, I want," John licked his lips and grinned at the blush spreading across Sherlock's neck and face. "But I can wait."

"Um, yes. Good." Sherlock cleared his throat and lowered his face to the surface of the potion, inhaling deeply.

"It's ready."

John pushed off the wall and stepped back as Sherlock used his shirt sleeves to lift the cauldron off the small fire. He took two large steps back and flung the contents at the rock face. He dropped the cauldron to the ground with a clang and stared expectantly at the thick potion as it dripped its way down the wall.

Five minutes later they were still waiting.

"I'm guessing this isn't the result you were hoping for?" John ventured.

"It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock muttered and started pacing. "I've never gotten a potion wrong."

"Hang on," John told and squinted at the wall. Small leaves were starting to push their way through the few cracks in the surface. "Sherlock, look."

"I knew I wasn't wrong." He scoffed.

Before their eyes the leaves turned into thickening vines that proceeded to climb the smooth rock all the way to the top of the cavern.

"So what now?" John asked, already half knowing what the answer would be.

"Now we climb," Sherlock said with excitement dripping from every word.

"I was afraid of that." John muttered as he grabbed a vine and pulled on it to test its strength. The vines seemed quite firmly attached to the wall but it didn't make him feel any better about free climbing them. The ceiling was at least two hundred feet above them and John desperately hoped their destination appeared before the cavern started to curve.

"Oof!" Sherlock had taken hold of a vine and tried unsuccessfully to haul himself upward. His dress shoes failed to make purchase on the slick surface of the wall and he slipped back down.

"You may have to take off your shoes," John suggested, testing his trainers against the rock before attempting to climb. The rubber of his soles fared much better.

"I can't, the rocks are too sharp. My feet will be covered in cuts within a few feet. I highly doubt blood will help me climb any better than the shoes did."

"So what do we do?" John asked.

"I stay here. You climb." Sherlock said simply.

"What? This was your adventure, Sherlock; I'm just along for the ride. How about I give you my shoes and you can climb?"

"My feet are three sizes bigger than yours, at least, and this is our adventure, John. It wouldn't be half as satisfying without you to tell me how brilliant I am." Sherlock argued.

"Prat," John chuckled. "Fine, I'll climb. Though I've no idea what I'm looking for."

"You'll know it when you see it, I'm sure. Now go, it's getting late." Sherlock pushed him back toward the vines.

John took a deep breath and grabbed one of the sturdier looking vines. With a silent prayer that he wouldn't fall to his death he started to climb. After a dozen or so steps he stopped and looked down on his friend.

"Three sizes bigger, huh?" He teased and was rewarded with Sherlock's face turning pink again.

"Just pay attention to what you're doing," the other boy called. "I'd hate to have to train someone to take your place should you fall."

John chuckled and refocused on climbing. Hand over hand and one foot at a time, he slowly made his way up the wall. The rock face was sharp and it wasn't long before his hands were smarting from several small cuts caused by brushing too close to the wall. The stone was also wreaking havoc on the strength of the vines. Twice he had to switch his route because the plants were being shredded by the outcropping of serrated rocks.

Twenty minutes after he started a hole appeared in the wall. He struggled to retrieve his wand and almost lost his grip. He took a minute to catch his breath and calm his heart before tentatively nudging his foot into the opening.

"What is it?" Sherlock called from below, startling him.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Don't do that!" He yelled.

"Sorry," was the quiet response.

"There's a cave of some sort. It's just kind of here. I don't think you'd ever see it from below."

"That must be it, go in." Sherlock's voice was excited once again.

"I'm trying; it's like climbing ice up here though. It's pitch black inside and I can't let go to grab my wand to see what I'm doing." John explained.

"Hold on a second," Sherlock said.

John couldn't see what his friend was doing but soon a ball of light was hurtling by him and into the cave. It illuminated the space before him and John was more easily able to clamber into the hole.

"Good aim," he called down, grinning and leaning over the edge.

"What's in there?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Alright, hang on." John stood and looked around the small cave. There was a small table made of the green rock in the center of the space. He approached it cautiously and saw a single golden feather lying on the top of the table. He hurried back to the opening.

"There's a golden feather on a table. That's it." He told Sherlock, his voice bouncing back to him as it hit the walls of the cavern.

"That has to be what they're after."

"Wait, you don't know what it is? I thought you knew what we were doing!"

"I didn't have time to research everything, John." Sherlock shouted testily. "They would have beat us to it!"

"Merlin's beard!" John shook his head. "Fine, what do I do?"

"Take the feather, of course."

"Are you sure? What if there's a curse attached to it?" John was seriously starting to worry about having blindly trusted a boy he'd only know two days with his life.

"The test was in getting to the object, I'm sure of it. You've done beautifully so far, John. Take the feather." Sherlock had his arms raised above his head, gesturing for John to go back into the cave.

John sighed heavily and went back to the table. He took his wand out of his pocket, just in case, and slowly reached for the feather. As soon as he made contact a shrill squeal started from the main cavern. He clutched the feather in his hand and hurried back to the opening. Sherlock's eyes were wide below him, his face pale and looking worried.

"What is that?" John yelled as loud as he could. As suddenly as it has started, the noise abruptly stopped.

"John, I need you to stay calm. Can you do that?" Sherlock called, his voice shaking slightly.

"Sherlock, what the hell was that?" He demanded.

"The vines, John. They've retreated into the wall."

Sure enough, when he looked around the walls were once again smooth and bare.

"How the hell do I get down?" John was trying not to panic but his brain decided to take a serious interest in vertigo just then.

"Give me a minute," Sherlock started walking around, searching for God knew what.

"The potion!" John called. "Make more of the potion!"

"I don't have any more bramblewort! It's rare, remember? It's a miracle there was enough left for the potion I did make! No, you're going to have to jump. The water is a ways off but you might make it. How far back does the cave go?"

"About four feet! Sherlock, there's no way I can make it to the water, I'll die. Think of a better plan!"

Just then a rumbling started from above them. Both boys looked up but there was nothing to indicate what was causing it.

"The staircase," Sherlock said, clearly agitated. "They're coming John, we have to get out of here, now!"

"I'll just snap my fingers then, shall I?" John hissed and clenched his fists. He'd forgotten all about the feather until it's sharp edge bit into his palm. It had cut him deep enough to bleed and when his blood touched it the feather started to glow.

"Sherlock?" He called.

"I'm thinking!" Sherlock shouted.

"I think I've got it," John said quietly. He held the feather up in front of his face as the ceiling started to shimmer. It would only be moments before the thieves dropped into the water. With any luck they wouldn't be expecting the lake either and it would buy John and Sherlock enough time to escape unnoticed.

He pressed the feather to his chest. He hissed as it made contact, burning into through his shirt and into his flesh. Instantly he hunched in pain as two giant, golden wings sprouted from his back. As soon as the wings were out, the pain faded and John was in control of them. He took a moment to be dumbfounded by the wings and how natural they felt before two figures fell from the ceiling, screaming, to land in the lake.

Without a second thought John leapt out of the cave and hurtled toward a comically shocked Sherlock. He gathered the other boy in his arms as he swooped by and rose again, instinctively adjusting for the added weight. His wings flapped forcefully as they neared the top of the cavern. The ceiling was starting to shimmer again and John got the feeling if they didn't clear it by the time they stopped they'd be stuck either in the cavern or in the rock itself.

Timing was on their side, as it turned out, and they were soon back on the staircase they'd leapt from less than an hour before. John gently set Sherlock on his feet and pulled the feather from his chest. He grunted as the wings reversed their growth into his back as the feather slowly peeled away from him. He looked from the feather to Sherlock with a grin.

"Came in handy, that."

Sherlock made a choking noise and grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him back up the stairs. He didn't slow or speak until they reached the Room of Requirement. When they arrived Sherlock opened the door with the shiny 221 on it and shoved John over the threshold. John turned to speak to Sherlock, to try and calm him down but was silenced when the other boy pushed him against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock crowded into his space, dragging his eyes all over John's frame before slamming his palms on either side of the shorter boy's head and proceeding to snog him senseless.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

As far as being attacked went, John had experienced worse. Much worse. Sherlock's kisses were frantic and sharp, full of teeth. John let him get it out of his system before the started really kissing back, quickly taking control of the pace and force of the kisses. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, pulling him close. The other boy was shaking in his arms.

John brought his hand up to stroke at Sherlock's hair, tucking his friend's face into the crook of his neck. Sherlock leaned into him heavily, lowering his own arms to clutch at John's waist.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," John whispered into soft curls.

Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled back to look at him.

"You mistake my reaction," he said, tracing the scorch mark in John's shirt. "That was brilliant. Amazing. Incredible. Stunning. Wonderful." He punctuated his words with kisses to John's chest through the hole.

"John." He groaned and launched himself at the shorted boy again, attacking his mouth with wet, hot kisses.

John gave in and let Sherlock lead, swiping his tongue against the other boy's when it invaded his mouth. Sherlock's hands were everywhere on John's body, mapping out every inch he could. When they reached John's belt he was pulled forward sharply. Sherlock ground his noticeable erection into John's hip and threw his head back, groaning.

"Upstairs," John panted.

Sherlock shook his head. "No time." He whispered, unhooking John's button and sliding his zipper down. Before John could fully register what was happening Sherlock had dropped to his knees and pulled him out of his straining pants. A slick, wet tongue swirled around the head of his prick before it was engulfed in incredible heat.

John choked out an inelegant noise and thrust toward the delicious sensation. Sherlock slammed his hips back into the wall holding him there with his large hands while he took John down to the root, pulled off slowly, and swallowed him down again. Over and over again, Sherlock never let up, sucking almost too strongly as he enthusiastically brought John to the brink of orgasm.

"Sherlock-" John garbled in warning seconds before he came, pulsing in hot ribbons across his new friend's tongue.

Sherlock sucked him gently through it, swallowing John's offering once he was done. He'd barely slipped the now soft cock out his mouth before John was on top of him, forcing him to the floor.

"My turn," John panted, ripping open Sherlock's pants and shoving them one handed, over his hips. "That was bloody amazing."

"You have a lovely cock," Sherlock managed to say before John's tongue plunged into his mouth, silencing him.

"You, you're a fucking marvel." John drew Sherlock's smooth, slim prick out and slid his thumb over the head, spreading a surprising amount of precome around. "Jesus, you're practically soaking." He muttered.

Sherlock's only response was a throaty moan as his head hit the wood beneath it.

"Beautiful," John purred as he stroked, slow and firm.

"Faster," Sherlock gasped. "Don't stop."

"I won't, don't worry." John chuckled and sped up.

Within a minute Sherlock was lifting his hips to thrust into the tight circle of John's hand. A vision of what Sherlock would look like, stark naked beneath him, rising up to meet John's every thrust flashed through his head and John's cock gave a hopeful pulse.

"God, you," John bent down to suck at Sherlock's clavicle as he tightened his grip.

"Yesssss," Sherlock hissed, arching and shooting cum over his shirt and John's hand.

John left his hand where it was as he peppered light kisses over Sherlock's neck. A long fingered hand came up to pat him on the head and he started giggling. Sherlock's own laughter rumbled through his chest as he joined in, shaking them both.

"Well, that was...pleasant." John said, pulling away to look down at the other boy.

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed and stretched, back and neck arching off the floor.

"God, keep that up and you'll have me ready to go again." John warned him.

"Really?" Sherlock looked up at him, curious.

"Desire and ability are two very different things and I'm knackered. Flying is exhausting."

"I should think so," Sherlock said, hauling himself into a sitting position beside John. "Watching it was stimulating."

"Apparently," John chuckled. "So, should we maybe talk about this?" He gestured to the two on them and the result of Sherlock's orgasm.

"Did you enjoy it?" Sherlock asked.

"God, yes," John answered.

"Would you like to do it again?"

"Very much so," John said with fervor.

"I agree. There, now we've talked about it-Oouf!" Sherlock huffed out as John tackled him back to the floor.

"You're mad. But I like it." John kissed him deeply.

"That's fortunate." Sherlock grinned at him when he withdrew.

"Isn't it? Let's go up now, I could use some tea."

John jumped to his feet and held out his clean hand to Sherlock. The walked up the stairs shoulder to shoulder, grinning like lunatics.

John made tea while Sherlock searched the bedroom for a clean shirt. Once they were presentable and seated with their tea, John took out the golden feather and laid it on the low table between them.

"So, what is it?" He asked.

"I haven't a clue," Sherlock admitted. "But that doesn't stop me from seeing its value. What was using it like?"

"Fantastic," John couldn't help but grin. "I have no idea how I knew it would work. It was like the feather knew where it should be and guided me. Does that make sense?"

"Perhaps. It would have to be sentient, like the carpet. Objects like those are exceedingly rare, and ridiculously valuable."

"Why hide it at Hogwarts then?" John asked.

"Why not? It's one of the safest places in the wizarding world and people tend to leave things lying around here for so long, history forgets they ever existed." Sherlock shrugged.

"What do we do with it then? Turn it in to the headmaster?"

"Certainly not!" Sherlock looked horrified at the suggestion.

"Sherlock, we can't keep it. We don't even know what it is!" John argued.

"Then we find out. I don't trust the headmaster, John. He's a pompous ass."

John looked at him pointedly over his cup of tea.

"Oh, shut up. At least I've earned my reputation." He spat and John smiled to himself.

"Alright, let's figure out what it is, then we can decide what to do with it. Should we leave it here in the mean time?" John conceded.

"No, I think you should keep it. Others can access this space if they know how. we can't ensure it will be safe here."

"I don't know Sherlock, what if someone catches me with it?"

"John, it's quite possible only four people in the entire castle know of that feather's existence. We don't know who they are and they don't know us. The chances of you being discovered with it are very slight."

"Fine, but if I do get caught I'm using it and getting the hell out of there."

"Absolutely. Now, we need to do some research. The library is closed until morning and if we're not in our beds by morning someone may get suspicious. As tempting as staying here all night is, we should return to our houses."

"Tempting, huh?" John asked.

"Well yes, I much prefer this place to a dorm filled with three insufferable idiots snoring and muttering in their sleep."

John got out of his chair slowly, walking over to Sherlock.

"So you'd prefer to stay the night here with me, instead of going back to your own bed?" John teased and he climbed on top of Sherlock, nudging his knees between the boy's thighs and the sides of the chair.

"John, I told you the work comes first." Sherlock said seriously.

"Yes, yes you did. But you also said there isn't anything more we can do tonight. So technically there's no work to be done, yes?"

"There is always work to be done." Sherlock told him, voice tight.

"Shame," John bent down to lick up Sherlock's neck. He felt the other boy shiver beneath him. "I'm not feeling quite as tired as I was earlier."

"Really?" Sherlock whispered, fingers digging into the arms of the chair.

"Nope, very awake now. But if you're adamant about going back to your dorm..." John trailed off and bit down gently on the earlobe in front of him.

Sherlock's hands came up to grip John's arse, holding him close. John smirked and brought his mouth to the other boy's, kissing him softly.

"I believe I'm going to enjoy the distraction of you, John Watson."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Much to John's disappointment, he had actually been too tired to go another round with Sherlock in the chair. Of course that didn't mean they hadn't enjoyed their time together. They'd kissed slowly and softly, exploring each other and talking until the clock in the sitting room had chimed four and they'd been forced out of their cocoon and back into the cold, dark halls of the castle. They'd separated once again in the House Hallway before quietly slipping back to their respective houses. Sherlock had squeezed John's hand tightly before releasing it. Somehow that had meant more to John than the rest of what they'd done that night.

John was asleep nearly before his head hit the pillow, feather tucked securely underneath it. He kept his hand wrapped around it the whole night and woke after too few hours of sleep to its imprint across his palm. The other boys in his dorm were already headed down to breakfast by the time John pulled himself out of bed and dressed. He'd just pulled on his robes when a loud pop sounded from behind him and he turned to find a house elf holding out a folded sheet of parchment.

"Oh, hello there." He said.

"Message for Master Watson, sir." The house elf squeaked, bowing until it's nose touched the sheets.

"Yes, thank you."

As soon as John took the note the elf disappeared with another bright pop. He opened the paper to find a curt message from Sherlock, demanding he meet him in the library at the noon break. John's stomach grumbled in hunger and he figured he should hurry on before breakfast was over, since he obviously wasn't going to be eating lunch.

John's morning classes dragged on as he struggled to stay awake. Twice Greg Lestrade had to jab him with his quill to get him to stop snoring before anyone noticed. Greg caught up to him between Transfiguration and Alchemy.

"So where were you last night?" The boy asked.

"Oh, um, studying. N.E.W.T.S. coming up and all that." John answered, trying to look honest.

"Really? Got a study partner then?"

"What? No, why would you say that?" John turned to look at his friend.

"Well, I wager it'd be right difficult for you to have given yourself that love bite on your neck." Greg said, smirking.

John felt his face heat up as he tugged at the collar of his robes, trying to cover the mark Sherlock had insisted on leaving last night. He'd said something about an experiment and pinned John down. Honestly, his brain had shut down about the time Sherlock's teeth had started nibbling.

"Bugger," John muttered and Greg laughed.

"Hey, no shame in having a bit of fun. You're a big time Quidditch player after all. You're going to be beating them off with a stick after we win tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night, right." John said.

"You didn't forget did you?" Greg asked.

"Course not," He had. "Just had other things on my mind, if you know what I mean." He nudged Greg in the ribs.

"Well make such your head's in the game tomorrow. An unfocused Keeper is liable to get a bludger to the head. Of course that may not be too bad if you've got someone to kiss it all better." He waggled his eyebrows.

"I'll be fine, totally focused." John promised.

"You better be or I'll send a bludger your way myself. I've got to run, but I'll see you at practice tonight, six sharp." Greg poked him in the chest.

"Right, practice." Again, John had completely forgotten. It seemed that anything that didn't have to do with Sherlock had disappeared from his memory. That could be a problem.

"John," Greg said in warning.

"I'll be there!" He insisted, turning to enter the Alchemy classroom.

Not watching where he was going, he stumbled straight into another boy on his way to his desk.

"Watch it, Watson!" Phillip Anderson sneered, shoving him sideways.

"Anderson! Get out of my classroom unless you want another foot of parchment added to your essay." Professor Argent shouted.

Anderson glared at him and stomped out. John watched him go with clenched fists, seeing in his mind the livid bruises the boy had left on Sherlock's face.

The previous night, while they were curled in the chair, John had stroked that face gently and asked what had really happened. Apparently Sherlock had been sneaking around, trying to pick up the trail of the thieves when he'd suddenly found himself just around the corner from them. He'd hidden behind a suit of armour to spy on them but the armour had taken offense and tried to shoo him away, causing a commotion that caught the attention of the thieves. Sherlock had turned to flee and run smack into Anderson and his cronies. In order to cover his spying he picked a fight with Anderson. Unfortunately he'd been doubled over in pain and unable to actually see the mystery thieves when they discovered the scene. 

Sherlock had assured him he could have won the fight if needed, but he couldn't risk the thieves suspecting it had been him watching them. He'd run as soon as the thieves cleared out and not stopped until he found the Room of Requirement.

"Watson, are you planning on joining us today or not?" Professor Argent's voice cut across the room, pulling John out of his thoughts.

"Yes, sir." He responded and took his seat.

After class John found Sherlock behind a large pile of books in the restricted section of the library, head buried in the pages of a tome almost as big as the table.

"How did you get all these?" John asked, examining the titles.

"I can be very persuasive when I need to be," Sherlock said, not raising his eyes from the book.

"Oh, believe me, I know," John chuckled and tilted Sherlock's chin up with two fingers. He leaned down for a kiss but the other boy pulled away.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"We're in the library, John."

"Afraid we'll shock the books?"

"We can't kiss in the library, what if someone sees us?" Sherlock hissed.

"I don't bloody care who sees us. I told you after I almost drowned last night, we always start with a kiss now."

"Oh, right," Sherlock's ears turned pink.

"Do you not want anyone to know we're together?" John asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"No! It's not that at all," Sherlock assured him, reaching for his hand. "I should rather think if one of us wished to keep this a secret, it would be you."

"Why? You're brilliant, mad, and gorgeous. Who would want to hide you away?" John exclaimed, sitting down on the corner of the table, shoving the book out of the way.

"Everyone," Sherlock answered honestly. "But you're not everyone, as you keep proving."

"Everyone else are idiots, remember?" He smiled and leaned down to brush his lips across Sherlock's.

"Hmm," the other boy agreed, cradling John's head in his hands and pulling him closer for another kiss.

"There, now we've had a proper snog, we can get down to business." John grinned.

"Quite." Sherlock ushered him off the table and into a chair, serious once again. "I've been going through all the books that have been looked at by others since the term began but so far haven't come across anything to do with a golden feather."

"Have you been here all morning? What about your lessons?" John asked.

"Tedious, I know more than most of the professors anyway." Sherlock said, distain dripping from every word.

"Maybe, but you still have to go to your lessons. It's not like they're not going to notice you're missing."

"Most of my Professors are quite happy not to have me in class, actually. I sit exams and show up for the more interesting labs but skip the useless classes. The arrangement works well for all involved, I assure you. Here, start on this book."

John sighed and took the heavy book. There was no use arguing with Sherlock. If he wasn't winning, he'd just ignore John until he gave up. Sadly, it usually worked pretty well.

"So what's our plan if we can't figure out what the feather is?" John asked, scanning the pages in front of him.

"Then we go back to thwarting them before they get to their next target."

"Should we maybe be trying harder to figure out who they are? I mean, wouldn't that help us stop them faster?"

Sherlock looked up at him.

"Do you honestly assume I'm not also working on that? I'm not stupid, John. I know what needs to be done."

"I know that! Hey, I wasn't criticizing you. I'm just saying that I want in on all of this. The more I know, the more I can help, right?"

"You have other responsibilities to worry about, I do not. There is no need to concern yourself with any more than you already know." Sherlock went back to his book.

John stared at his friend and tried to puzzle out why Sherlock seemed to be so upset about this. Didn't he want John by his side? He had certainly proven himself to be a useful partner after last night and if they focused on the identities of the thieves they could go to the headmaster and expose them. Unless Sherlock doesn't want John to know who the thieves are.

"You already know don't you?" John whispered angrily.

"Know what?" Sherlock responded absently.

"You know who they are. Why didn't you say something? How long have you known?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock wouldn't look at him so John pulled him in by the front of his robes.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about, Sherlock. How long have you know who they are?" John ground out.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock insisted.

"Yes it does!” John said a little too loudly, his voice bouncing off the bookshelves around them. "You lied to me."

"It was for your own good, John. You're a white hat and too honest for your own good. One look at you and they'd know you knew." Sherlock hissed.

John let him go and sat back in his chair, blinking at the boy.

"You don't trust me." He said.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I do." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, you don't. You'll allow me to follow you into dangerous situations, risk my life, but you don't trust me enough to tell me who they are."

"John, we don't have time for this. The break is almost over and you need to get to class. I'll need you to return afterward to continue. Then tonight I have another place for us to search." Sherlock grabbed another book from the pile.

"No." John said.

"No?" Sherlock looked up, startled. "What do you mean no?"

"I'm not your errand boy. I have Quidditch practice tonight and I need to sleep after class if I want to keep from falling off my broom. I have responsibilities, remember? The ones that make me untrustworthy." John stood up and walked away from the table.

"John!" Sherlock called in a harsh whisper but John ignored him and left the library.

He knew he was probably overreacting but he couldn't help it. He'd finally found something that kept his mind off his father and the terrible secret that had been kept from him. Sherlock not trusting him brought it all back to the surface. He was suddenly so mad he wanted to hit something. Or someone. He stooped and took a deep breath, pressing his head to the cold stone wall. Sherlock's words came back to him, along with a sharp pain in his left hand.

He looked down and watched a trickle of blood slide from his middle knuckle down over his clenched fist. He'd struck the wall. He sighed heavily and shook himself, wiping the blood on his robes and hurried to class.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

By the time Quidditch practice started John was a mess. He'd tried to sleep after his lessons but ended up tossing and turning, going over his argument with Sherlock again and again. He knew he was being difficult. Sherlock was right, he was a terrible liar and would probably manage to tip off the thieves if he knew their identities. That didn't mean he didn't have a right to be upset though. Sherlock had lied to him and John knew he hadn't deserved that.

At twenty minutes to six John pulled on his Quidditch robes and took his broom out of his wardrobe. After his father died Greg had tried to get him to take some time off from the team but Quidditch seem like the only thing that didn't make him feel useless and angry so he'd kept on. His playing had changed, he was more aggressive now and rarely let a Quaffle through. As a result Gryffindor was in good shape heading into the season.

John stopped by the Great Hall on his way to the pitch to grab whatever was left of dinner. He managed to snag a ham sandwich before the food disappeared from the tables. He was halfway to the pitch when Greg joined him. Evidently his mood was still dark enough to ensure silence from his Captain.

The rest of the team was already on the pitch, chatting amiably. John nodded to them before mounting his broom and kicking off the ground. He flew a few laps before settling in front of the goal posts. The next half hour flew by as he carefully watched the other players and blocked shot after shot. He watched Molly Hooper, their Seeker, dart around the field in search of the Snitch. She banked hard around the stands to his left and as his eyes lost sight of her they happened to land on a dark head, huddled into a blue and bronze scarf.

Sherlock was in the stands, watching him instead of going off in search of more clues alone. John's chest relaxed a little and he felt a smile break out across his face just as a bludger came from his right and caught him hard in the leg. He managed to stay on his broom but cried out at the pain that burst across his thigh.

"Jesus, John! Keep your head up!" Greg yelled, flying toward him.

"Right, knew I was forgetting something." John snapped, rubbing at his leg.

"Walk it off," Greg told him and went to organize the other players.

John guided his broom to the base of the stands where he'd seen Sherlock. The boy was just coming down the stairs as John landed, stretching out his leg and wincing.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yeah, I'll live. Just a bruise."

"Let me see, are you sure it's not broken?" Sherlock reached for him.

"Sherlock, stop!" He pushed his hands away. "It's not broken, I'm standing on it."

He frowned at the boy. Sherlock was fidgeting and seemed to be having trouble keeping his hands to himself.

"Hey," John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm fine, really. Unless you were just trying to get my kit off, I could fake an injury and we can get out of here if that's the case." John smirked and Sherlock's face went pink.

"Perhaps another time," Sherlock smile shyly. "I was...concerned."

"I know, it's adorable." John told him.

"It is not," Sherlock drew back, looking offended. "I was simply-"

"Thank you for coming to my practice." John interrupted him.

"Oh, well." Sherlock studied their feet.

"I'm sorry I got so angry earlier. I can't really go into it right now but you coming here instead of running around without me really mean a lot." John told him honestly, taking Sherlock's hand.

"I hoped it would," Sherlock looked into John's face earnestly. "I do trust you, John. More than I've ever trusted anyone and to think that you would think differently was...difficult." He admitted.

"I have to get back to practice but we should be done in about an hour. Stay and we can finish this conversation then?"

"Alright, but it's very cold out here." Sherlock huffed.

John went onto his tiptoes to whisper in the other boy's ear.

"I'll warm you up nice and proper afterward, I promise." He stole a quick kiss before he pulled away, mounting his broom with a cheeky grin.

"I'm holding you to that." Sherlock called.

"I'll be holding on to something!" John shouted back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started back up to his seat in the stands. By the time John made it back to his place before the goal posts the rest of the team was cat calling and making kissy faces in his direction. He sent them all a two fingered salute and got back to business.

An hour later John was sweating and exhausted. He stumbled from his broom as he landed, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. He was reasonably sure he could lay down on the hard ground and not stir until morning.

"So that's your secret then, huh?" Greg pounded him on the back, making him pitch forward.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Holmes. He's the one marking his territory on your neck?" Greg looked genuinely interested.

"Oh, yeah. He's, ahh," John paused, unsure how to categorize Sherlock.

"Pretty," Molly said, coming up alongside them.

"Sure, pretty. Prickly is a word I've heard used." Greg told them.

"I heard he's brilliant." Molly added.

"Okay, we're not talking about this anymore." John told them when he saw Sherlock approaching them. "He's none of your business."

"John, are you ready to go?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the other two students.

"Hi there," Greg chimed, holding out his hand. "I'm Greg Lestrade, this is Molly Hooper. We're friends of John's."

Sherlock looked startled at the extended hand. He tentatively reached out to shake it, looking at John as if asking permission.

"Hello?" He responded.

"It's very nice to meet you," Molly chirped, smiling.

"Is it?" Sherlock frowned at her.

"Okay, we're leaving. I'll see you two tomorrow at the game." John grabbed Sherlock by the arm, pulling him away.

"Bye!" Molly called.

"Don't stay up all night again!" Greg shouted, laughing.

John felt his face heat up and he ground his teeth.

"Why are they so cheerful?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Oh, they're just taking the piss."

"So they didn't really intend to be cordial to me?"

"No, they did. They're nice people, Greg was just giving me a hard time because he saw the mark you left."

"Did he? Good." Sherlock perked up and took John's hand in his.

"Good?" John asked.

"That's why I left it."

"So you actually were marking your territory? Sherlock!" John stopped walking and gaped at him.

"What? Was I wrong to assume we are together now?" Sherlock asked.

"No, but that's, well that's just..."

"Just what? Practical? Efficient?"

"I don't know what it is." John sighed, shaking his head.

"Did you not enjoy it?" Sherlock started walking again.

"I enjoyed you making the mark." John admitted.

"And I enjoy that it worked as a warning."

"A warning?"

"Yes, you're mine now John. Others should take heed." Sherlock told him, voice deepening.

A curl of heat started in John abdomen. He was Sherlock's and Sherlock was his. Perhaps it was time for him to leave his own warning mark.

"Well, when you put it that way I can see the appeal." John smiled.

"Good. Now, let’s get back to our room and I can have a look at your injury."

"After we finish our conversation." John reminded him.

"As you wish." Sherlock stroked his thumb across John's palm.

By the time they reached the Room of Requirement John was half asleep on his feet. Sherlock guided him up the stairs and into his chair. He took John's broom from him and pulled off his Quidditch robes, tossing them in a pile. John's shirt was next but when he went for his flies John stopped him.

"I'm too tired." He explained groggily.

"Relax, John. I just want to see your leg, I have no intention of taking advantage." Sherlock soothed.

"Why not?" John slurred, lifting his hips so Sherlock could pull his trousers off.

Sherlock chuckled and then sucked in a breath at the angry purpling on John's right thigh.

"That's going to hurt for a while," he said, ghosting his hands over it. "I will try to get you something for it from Madame Pomfrey before your game."

John's answer was a soft snore. Sherlock looked up at him from between John's spread legs and sighed.

"Come on, let's get you into bed." Sherlock's voice and firm hands broke through his exhaustion and the next thing John knew he was being hauled to his feet.

"I have to get back to my dorm," he muttered.

"You won't make it and I'm not carrying you that far. You can sleep here, tomorrow is Saturday and no one will miss you."

"Oh, that sounds much better."

John was lower gently to the bed and Sherlock drew the covers up over him. He kissed John on the forehead and turned to leave. John's arm shot out to grab his wrist.

"Stay," he whispered, trying to keep his eyes open.

"John," Sherlock started, unsure.

"Please? That's alright, isn't it? If you want to."

"I do want to."

"Then stay. Stay with me tonight, Sherlock."

There were a few beats of silence and John drifted back to sleep. He roused briefly and rolled over as Sherlock lifted the covers and slid into the other side of the bed. He lay there stiffly until John snuggled up and threw his arm over his waist, holding him tight.

"Mm, nice." John murmured, rubbing his nose against Sherlock's bare shoulder. 

Sherlock raised his arm, allowing John to curl closer, laying his head on Sherlock's chest. They fit together rather snugly and Sherlock started to relax.

"Is good." John sniffed and fell back asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut and explanations.

Chapter Nine

John woke with a slurp. He jerked his head up, wiping at the trail of drool that extended from his mouth to the pale shoulder beneath him. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, looking around the room, confused at first. Then he looked down at Sherlock and smiled. They had actually slept together. Side by side, in constant contact, and it had been the best night of sleep John had experienced since his father died. He gently wiped his saliva from Sherlock with a corner of sheet and lowed the blanket covering the other boy. He couldn't help but look now that the opportunity presented itself.

Sherlock was sprawled on his back, warm flesh spread out to accommodate John's curiosity. He was wearing nothing but pants and socks and John longed to touch him. Very lightly he trailed his fingertips down the other boy's chest, over his sternum and spread his palm over the flat stomach. He ran his thumb over the side of Sherlock's waist and was startled when the body under his attentions squirmed and a giggle rang out from above him.

He looked up at Sherlock, embarrassed at being caught.

"Sorry, I was trying to stay still but that tickles."

"I shouldn't have woken you." John said, laying his head back down on the other boy's shoulder.

"That's fine, I didn't mean to sleep so late. What time is it?" Sherlock rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"Half past seven, we've time before we have to get up," John told him after checking his watch. "Thanks for putting me to bed last night, by the way."

"I proved to be rather entertaining. I look forward to more of it in the future." Sherlock ran a hand through John's short hair, making it stand on end.

"I could definitely get used to this," John admitted, leaning into the hand stroking his head.

They lay in silence for a while, pressed close together and enjoying the warmth their bodies created.

"I hate to spoil the morning, but you said you would answer my questions." John lifted his head to look at Sherlock.

"Indeed I did. Tea first?"

"I'll make some but then I'm coming back to bed. I'm enjoying snuggly Sherlock far too much to give him up so quickly." John smiled and left a quick peck on Sherlock's mouth before getting out of bed and going into the kitchen.

He returned after the tea was made and they'd both made use of the loo. He realized, as he carried the hot mugs back into the bedroom, that he felt happy. The pain of losing his Father and the betrayal that accompanied it was still there but the shining light Sherlock had introduced into his life currently overshadowed it. John had asked the room for something to change his life and that's exactly what he's been presented with. What were the chances that he and Sherlock would encounter the same version of the Room of Requirement at the same time. He found himself wondering what Sherlock had asked for before the door presented itself to him.

He walked into the room to find Sherlock seated up against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. He handed over one of the mugs, placing his own on the side table before climbing back into the bed, careful not to jostle Sherlock too much as he blew on his tea. He sat silently, letting Sherlock organize his thoughts. After a few careful sips, Sherlock finally lowered his knees and half turned toward John.

"Technically you don't have the security clearance to know any of this so I find myself required to stress the importance of you not repeating what I'm about to tell you." He told John in a serious tone.

"Um, okay." John said, puzzled. This conversation was not starting at all like he thought it would.

"As you know, I transferred to Hogwarts from Beauxbatons at the beginning of the term. That wasn't happenstance, and though I've quite enjoyed the theories regarding my reasons for fleeing France, none of them are completely accurate."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Am I still going to want to be sitting in this bed with you once I know everything?"

"There is a thirty-five percent chance you may feel the urge to strike me." Sherlock fiddled with the blanket, not meeting John's eye.

"Right," John took a deep drink of his tea and prepared himself. "Go on then."

"It was 'requested' I withdraw from Beauxbatons and continue my studies privately after I was involved in a small scandal connected to a professor whose father happens to be a high profile member of the British Cabinet. Honestly, it was blown completely out of proportion when my brother got involved. There were threats, a hex or two was uttered and before I knew it, I was being shipped to Hogwarts."

"You realize I'm going to want details right? Like what exactly this 'scandal' involved." John told him.

"I thought you might," Sherlock took a deep breath and stared into John's face. "I was having an inappropriate relationship with my professor. It was completely consensual on both sides, but someone found out and when his father learned of it he reacted badly."

"Was it," John cleared his throat. "Was is serious? Between you and he?"

"Only as serious as a secretive relationship based on sexual awakening and a power trip can be."

"That tells me nothing and you know it." John frowned.

"It wasn't serious. To me. Victor, however, mistook me for a fragile wallflower he needed to protect. Instead of agreeing to end the relationship and keep his distance, as his father demanded, he attempted to fight for me. He was quite shocked when I refused his request that we run away together."

"He loved you."

"Human error. I swear to you, John, I did not lead him on. I made it clear our relationship was one of mutual benefit and nothing else."

"Just out of curiosity, is that what this is? Just so I don't get attached." John asked harshly.

"No," Sherlock reached for John's hands, making him slosh his tea onto the blanket. "John, please believe me when I say that this is completely different. Honestly, we've spent more time together already than Victor and I did over a six month period. That was for one purpose only; gathering data. This, this is something completely different. Please say you believe me."

John looked into Sherlock's face. He looked half frantic, eyes pleading for John to believe him.

"So what happened next?" John pulled his hands away, not ready to give in.

"My brother got involved when Victor's father threatened me." Sherlock continued after a moment. "My brother practically runs the Ministry but you've never heard of him nor would you have seen his picture in the Prophet. He pulls the strings. All in all, not someone you want to cross. Victor's father is a Muggle, so he lacks a healthy appreciation for what magic can accomplish. Political chess, however, is a language he speaks fluently. When he made threats against me Mycroft stuck his big nose into it and things got ugly. Instead of letting me handle it, which I was perfectly capable of doing, he whisked me away from school and tried to hold me captive in London while he dealt with Mr. Trevor.

"I escaped and tried to intervene. More out of outrage over his involvement than any loyalty I held toward Victor. I may have acted impulsively when Mr. Trevor made comments about my mother and the way I'd been raised. I hexed him. I don't regret it, the man is repulsive and rude. Unfortunately I did it in front of the British Prime Minister and half a dozen aides."

Sherlock went silent, biting his lips and stealing glances at John from under his fringe. John stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Of course you bloody well did. Jesus, Sherlock!" He tried his best, but couldn't help the smile creeping onto his face.  
"What happened then?"

"Well, the PM wasn't a big problem, his brother is a wizard, runs a clothing store with his partner just outside Diagon Alley. The aides, however, especially the one with the camera phone needed to be dealt with. Mycroft was very cross and locked me in his house, under Auror guard, if you can believe it. Once he'd cleaned up 'my mess', as he put it, he returned with an offer. I would enroll at Hogwarts for my final year while also working for him."

"Figuring out who is stealing ancient wizarding relics." John surmised. "But you know who they are, why not just tell your brother and let him deal with it?"

"Because I don't need him to deal with it, John! I can do this on my own, just like I could have dealt with the Victor situation on my own. The only reason I overreacted in that case was because Mycroft already had me so riled up. He sees me as a child and it's time I proved to him that I am not."

"So you're going to put yourself, and me too, by the way, in danger to prove to your big brother that you don't need him. You do realize how childish that sounds, don't you?" John shook his head.

"When you say it like that, it sounds a little childish, but the principle remains. I can do things on my own." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

"Except you're not doing things on your own. You got beat up when you tried that. Now you have me keeping you out of trouble."

"Yes, now I have John Watson at my side, watching my back." Sherlock studied his face.

"And that doesn't make you want to lash out and hex powerful members of the government?"

"Strangely, no." Sherlock smiled. "If you'll stay by my side, that is."

"Are you going to tell me who the thieves are?" John asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"No. I still think it's safer if you don't know. But I do promise not to make a move without you."

"I see," John sighed heavily.

"I didn't understand before, why you were so upset about my lying to you. I do now. Your parents didn't tell you your father was sick again, did they?"

John didn't answer. He clenched his fist and smiled tightly at his lap.

"I'm sorry, John. I should have deduced it earlier. I have no excuse." Sherlock's voice had gone quiet.

John looked up at him, seeing for the first time how truly upset Sherlock was over having hurt John.

"Hey, you couldn't have known." John reached out to him but Sherlock pulled away.

"I could have, if I'd looked deep enough. I was pleased with what I saw at first glance when I met you. It was the first time I didn't want to know everything at once. I wanted to keep parts of you wrapped up. I thought if I did that I could keep you for longer." Sherlock was sniffing now, fighting back tears.

John wrapped his arms around the other boy and pulled him close, ignoring the stiffness of his friend. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder.

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." John admitted.

Sherlock turned to him, a confused look on his face.

"It was almost romantic," John smiled. "Sherlock, we've know each other under a week. I don't have a lot of experience in these things, but I wouldn't call our relationship textbook. That means we get to make the rules up as we go along. We don't have to know absolutely everything about each other right away. That means if we trust each other, we can wait and discover each other at our own pace. And I do trust you. If you think I'm safer not knowing who the thieves are, then I'll take your word for it. You didn't have to tell me everything you just did, you could have glossed over a lot of the less appealing aspects but you didn't. That says a lot. I don't think it's in you to deceive me without a good reason. I'm going to choose to believe in that and let you lead."

Sherlock turned in to John, clutching at him and making them fall backward.

"Okay, okay, everything's fine." John soothed, rubbing Sherlock's back firmly.

"You're a marvel, John Watson." Sherlock whispered, leaning down to press their foreheads together. "I don't think I quite deserve you."

"Consider me a punishment then," John laughed. "And you know what this means, right?"

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"Technically we just had our first fight. That means we get to make up now."

"Oh. Oh, yes, I think you're correct. There are rules about these things, you know." Sherlock dipped his head to suck at John's neck.

"Very strict rules." John agreed, running his hands down over Sherlock's arse, lightly grinding them together.

Sherlock groaned and sucked harder, his hand coming up to tilt John's head for better access.

"And I know exactly the peace offering I want to make," John whispered, kneading Sherlock's arse.

"Anything, I'll do anything," Sherlock panted against his neck, digging his toes into the bed to increase the friction between them. "Just don't stop."

John swung his leg over Sherlock's hip and pushed upward to flip them. Sherlock gasped but didn't fight their new positions.

"I have to stop but I think you'll enjoy this even more," John told him as he kissed his way down Sherlock's chest. "Bear with me though, I've never been on the giving end before."

"Oh, John," Sherlock stared at him, dazed. "If you're half as good at that as you are at kissing, I won't last long enough to correct your technique."

John ducked his head to nip at the waistband of Sherlock's pants, effectively hiding his blush.

"May I?" He asked, pulling off the pants when Sherlock gave him an enthusiastic shake of his head.

"Oooh," Sherlock moaned when John ghosted a breath across the head of his cock.

"It's even more impressive from down here," John noted, flattening his tongue against the base and licking upward.

Sherlock gripped the sheets and made deep throated noises above him. John took that as encouragement and sucked lightly on the head.

"Christ!" Sherlock shouted, thrusting his hips up.

"Here goes nothing," John said before licking his lips and lightly sucking down Sherlock's shaft.

His lips were stretched and the other boy's cock felt alien in his mouth but the sounds Sherlock was making were more than enough to keep him going. He pulled back, swirling his tongue around the head, nudging it lightly under the foreskin.

"That!" Sherlock shouted. "Do that again, please!"

John chuckled, already having worked his way back down the shaft.

"Oh, God, that's good too." Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's hair, scratching at his scalp.

It felt nice and though Sherlock wasn't exerting any pressure, John liked the feeling of being led to what the other boy liked. He tried to take in more of Sherlock but when his cock hit the back of John's throat he almost gagged. He pulled back, breathing heavily through his nose.

"Shh, it's okay," Sherlock petted his head. "You're brilliant, just brilliant."

The heat in Sherlock's voice lit a fire in John's belly, thickening his cock and inspiring him to hear Sherlock yell John's name when he came this time. John got back to the task at hand with renewed vigor, sucking strongly and bobbing his head up and down the long cock under his tongue.

"Oh, oh, oh," Sherlock raised his hips a few inches, thrusting into John's mouth. John wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock's prick, controlling the thrusting a bit. He sucked hard at the head a few times, pumping his hand to the same rhythm.

"Yes, John. John!" Sherlock's hands fisted in John's hair tightly.

John felt Sherlock's cock grow thicker before it started pulsing, flooding his mouth with warm, spicy cum. John swallowed his way through it, grimacing slightly but not pulling off until Sherlock tugged at his hair. John sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"The swallowing part will take some getting used to." He admitted.

Sherlock grabbed at him, eyes wild. He pulled John down to the mattress and covered him with his body. He kissed John hard, swiping his tongue around and tasting himself in John's mouth. He groaned deeply and slid his hand down to John's erection.

"That was the sexiest thing I've ever seen," Sherlock purred. "Tell me what you want."

"God, what don't I want from you?" John panted, rubbing up against Sherlock's palm. "But I have to get to the Quidditch match."

Sherlock looked down at him like he was crazy.

"You can't leave now." He told him petulantly.

"I know, I'm sorry, but if I'm late Greg will murder me. This is an actual game, Sherlock. If I don't show up we forfeit. Responsibilities, remember?"

Sherlock groaned and collapsed on top of him making John grunt.

"What if I'm really quick?" Sherlock mumbled into John's shoulder.

"What if I don't want you to be quick?" John traced his finger around the curve of Sherlock's ear.

The other boy propped himself up on his hands and grinned down at John.

"Oh, I'm going to make you regret saying that after you win your match." He told him, pressing a quick kiss to John's lips and hopping off the bed.

"Oi, where are you going?" John called, shivering in the sudden absence of body heat.

"You've got a match, John! We have to feed you up so you can win and then I can do all sorts of delicious, slow things to you. Get up!" He threw John's clothes at him and scrambled into his own.

"Merlin's beard, I've created a monster." John mumbled and pulled his shirt over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr at www.teacuphuman09.tumblr.com!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. I totally didn't intend on writing an actual Quidditch game into this piece but found it was needed to advance the plot. Hopefully it's not too dry!

Chapter Ten

John and Sherlock sat with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team in the Great Hall for breakfast. Other students were wandering in and out, dressed in house colours to support either Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. The boys trailed behind Greg and the team down to the pitch, shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing as they walked. Sherlock pulled John behind one of the garden sheds halfway there for a thorough snog before pulling away and continuing on his way as if nothing had happened. John smiled and shook his head, hurrying to catch up to the taller boy.

They separated at the Gryffindor tent and Sherlock squeezed John's hand with confidence before disappearing into the stands with John's gold and scarlet scarf wrapped around his neck. John watched him go and was just about to duck into the tent when he heard a familiar voice. 

He crept around the side of the tent, taking care not to be seen.

"This is the last straw, he needs to be taught a lesson." A deep voice was whispering harshly.

"And he will but we need to be patient. We're so close, we can't afford a wrong move." A softer voice responded.

John swore under his breath. It was the same voices he and Sherlock had heard on the other side of the door in the Potion Master's cupboard.

"We also can't afford to waste any more time. Let me take care of him now, get the feather, and we'll be in the clear to finish up tonight uninterrupted." The deeper voice argued.

"If you take him out now he'll be missed and the alarm will be raised. We wait until later today. We'll have a short window to get it all done but he has no idea we know he's on to us so we have the element of surprise on our side. After tonight, we'll be free of this place."

John edged closer to where the mystery men were standing but knew the only way to see them was to reveal himself. They were obviously talking about Sherlock and John needed to get a message to him before the match. The time for Sherlock to prove himself was over and he needed to call in his brother.

"But-"

"Trust me," the soft voice cooed. "Am I ever wrong?"

"It only takes once." 

"Hush, now." The soft voice scolded and John heard them start moving away. 

He took a chance and stuck his head around the curve of the tent but they had disappeared into the crowd of late students hurrying to find a seat in the stands.

"John!" Greg called from behind him. "What the hell are you doing? We're about to start."

"Greg, I have to go talk to Sherlock for a minute. You need to stall."

"Whatever it is can wait, we're supposed to be on the pitch right now!" Greg grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him toward the tent.

"No, Greg, I have to go!" John protested, twisting to break the other boy's grip.

"No, Watson, get on the damn field before I hex you! We're in the lead for the cup and I'm not letting you muck it up for the rest of us!" 

Greg dragged John through the tent and out onto the pitch. He shoved him toward the team and glared when John tried once again to protest. With an angry huff John mounted his broom and kicked off toward the goal posts. He scanned the stands for Sherlock but couldn't pick him out amidst the sea of red and gold in the Gryffindor sections.

The whistle blew and the pitch sprung into action below him. Molly whizzed by him, a blur in her search for the Snitch and he dodged a bludger directed toward him from a Hufflepuff Beater. Twenty minutes into the game he caught a glimpse of dark curls in the stands. The other team took advantage of his distraction to send the Quaffle through the hoop to his right. The crowd groaned and Greg flew over to scream at him before zooming to hit a bludger away from Molly. 

John shook himself to clear his head. The thieves had said they weren't going to make a move until at least after the game so all he had to do was get to Sherlock immediately and warn him. He turned back to the pitch just in time to knock the Quaffle off it's course toward his posts. The crowd cheered but John frowned. He couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was in danger.

He blocked three more shots but let through two over the next hour. The Gryffindor Chasers were trying valiantly to stay ahead in points but they hadn't had to work this hard all season and they seemed a little lost. He kept the dark head in the stands within sight at all times but not being able to warn Sherlock had him on edge. The thieves could have changed their minds about going after him and John wouldn't know until it was too late.

A roar went through the stands as Molly spun her broom around sharply and sped upward. A streak of gold flashed in the sunlight and the Hufflepuff Seeker set off after it as well. The Quaffle almost hit John as it sailed into the hoop behind him. He cursed and refocused on the game. There was no guarantee that Molly would catch the Snitch just because she'd seen it and John still had a job to do.

Luckily the Hufflepuff Keeper also seemed to have been easily distracted by the sight of the Snitch as well and Gryffindor quickly scored forty more points. Greg and Sally, the other Gryffindor Beater went on the offensive and sent Bludgers into the close formation of Hufflepuff Chasers, causing them to scatter and give up the Quaffle. Molly came back into view of the pitch perched in a crouch on her broom, holding on with one hand, the other extended in front of her, just inches from the Snitch. The Hufflepuff Seeker was close on her tail but Molly had no fear on her broom and jumped forward, fingers closing over the small, golden ball, before falling to catch her broom by the tail end. 

The stands erupted in chaos and cheers. Molly floated to the ground, giant smile on her face to be congratulated by the rest of the Gryffindor team. John landed heavily and fought against the crush of the students descending on the pitch to get to Sherlock. He had almost made it to the base of the stands when something jabbed him in the arm. Sharp pain quickly spread across his torso and he stumbled into the crowd. Strong hands guided him into the dark alcove under the stairs. The last thing he saw before a cloak was thrown over him was an unfamiliar manic grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, jampacked with action and intensity, should be up Saturday!
> 
> *Quick note about Molly. I know she's usually written as quiet, shy, and a Hufflepuff but I love Molly dearly and think in this universe she'd be a bit of an ass-kicker. She's smart and her magic would bring her confidence and self-esteem that she seemsto lack in the regular Sherlock universe. So there. Molly rules.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been quite a while since I've read the Potter books so forgive me for any mistakes. I did some research and brushing up but if there are any glaring errors please let me know and I'll try and fix them unless they change the plot. In that case I claim artistic license.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr!](http://www.teacuphuman09.tumblr.com/)


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